These Hands
When Castiel finally regained consciousness the first thing he was aware of was the mind-numbing pain he was entirely unused to. His hands fisted into the dry grass and dirt around him as his chest heaved for breath, another feeling he couldn't quite place. With a groan he managed to push himself up into a sitting position, an action he regretted as soon as he completed it, his chest burning with more pain. Blue eyes traveled down his undone tie and open shirt to the Enochian sigil that had been carved on his chest. It had not healed much and had just barely started to scab over, though those did little good with his movement, small trails of blood oozing out from beneath them down to his navel.
He gingerly touched a hand to the markings, a hissing gasp escaping him at the stinging pain that resulted. As an angel he was not accustomed to things like pain as the Winchester brother's were, and the feeling made him reel. Taking a deep breath he rested his palms against his knees, closing his eyes and wincing. It had been a long time since he'd been able to heal himself to the fullest like he'd once been able to, but this was another matter entirely. This would scar.
Pushing the sleeve of his trench coat back from his lower arm he stared at the only other scar he'd accumulated on the body that was now entirely his own. It was made shortly before he'd died, done by his own hands to spring Dean from his confinement as the last seal was broken. And it had remained after he'd been brought back from the brink.
The angel was glad that there was no one else inhabiting this body anymore besides himself, Jimmy Novak's soul having died the night Castiel should have. God could not bring back both of them. If he'd still been sharing a body, Castiel knew that his host would have been able to feel this pain worse than he was currently.
Pain was a human trait, and Castiel clenched his fingers against his palms at the thought of it. Human. He knew it wouldn't be too long now, he'd been falling since the moment he set foot on earth, really. It just hadn't quite taken hold until he'd realized where his true loyalties lay.
"I killed two angels this week. Those are my brothers. I'm hunted, I rebelled, and I did it - all of it - for you . . ."
All of it. Ever step he'd taken outside of heaven, every angel and demon he'd slain without remorse, every wound he'd inflicted on his body, it had all been for Dean. And now it had come to this. Castiel let an uncharacteristic sigh escape him as he fell back down unto the ground, staring up into the cloudy sky.
"I don't have the same faith in you your brother does."
He wished with all his heart that he did. Without his faith in Dean he had nothing left to hang on to anymore. Faith in heaven, faith in god, faith in Dean, one by one everything he'd believed in had abandoned him. What good was he anymore? His knuckles still carried an uncomfortable twinge reminding him of how hard he'd punched Dean. He'd been so angry, the feeling he was unused to had overwhelmed him. How dare Dean leave him after everything he'd done for him? How dare he turn himself in when Castiel had given up so much to fight for him, to keep him away from the very thing he was running to?
It didn't make any sense, and the thoughts just piled up in Castiel's head like water in a damn. Running a hand through his hair he wondered how long he'd been lying here, how many days had passed. Had Dean said yes to Michael? As much as he prayed that the answer to that question was no, his throat constricted painfully at the thought of what was probably the truth. He gasped at the sudden feeling that made his body tense and shudder, raising his hands to his eyes to block the world from his vision.
Anguish. That was the name for it, if he remembered correctly. If Dean had gone to Michael, then that was what he was feeling. Anguish that this was to be how it all ended, anguish at knowing that Dean, whether Michael won or not, would die from the possession, anguish at knowing that he'd failed.
Pulling his hands away from his face he reached them up towards the sky, staring at them in a daze of pain of both the body and the heart. He could still remember it as well as he could remember his own name. These hands, his hands, were what had pulled Dean from hell.
He'd searched for what was known as only four months to humans, but was forty years in the chasms of the earth. Forty years he'd wandered through the pits of hell searching for one soul among the billions. And after so long he'd finally found him, cruelly carving out patterns on another soul's chest. It had hardly been the Dean Winchester he'd been watching for almost thirty years, and he'd had to struggle to get him calm enough to even get a firm grip on. Dean had fought back of course, and hard, but a soul that was not yet a demon was no match for an angel. The burn scar of where Castiel had held on to him was still branded on his arm.
Briefly, he wondered if Dean knew what such a mark actually meant. For now, Castiel prayed that it might have been one of the things that could have made it impossible for Michael to use Dean's body as a host. An irremovable marking done by another angel was as useful as the tattoo the hunters carried that kept the demons out of their bodies. The mark meant that Dean belonged to him, and any other angel that tried to harm him would be breaking one of the oldest codes they lived by. But then again, Zachariah and Uriel had already done things nearly as bad, though he couldn't help but hope.
The angel stared at his hands again, twitching his fingers absently. These were the hands that had held Dean's hand tight between them, promising that there was indeed a God watching over him. A promise that had turned out to be a lie. These were the hands that had touched Dean's shoulders in the sort of comforting gestures of humans that he'd tried to emulate.
These were the hands that had covered Dean's mouth and held him forcefully against a wall, begging him to remain silent as he betrayed everything he'd lived for until that point. The hands that had spilled his own blood and had smeared it over that very same wall. The hands that had he'd used shortly after to kill his brothers and sisters.
These were the hands that had rubbed nervously along the back of his neck when Dean asked him if he'd ever had sex, and "Why the hell not?" The hands that ha hesitantly taken the money from him, the hands that had itched to move and imitate the motions his companion had gone through that day. Fixing his tie, throwing his arm around the angels shoulders; things Dean would have never done before then, previously too wary of the other to think of such a thing.
These were the hands that had woken Dean from countless nights of restless nightmares of hell. The hands that had carried around the small golden amulet that had previously hung around the hunter's neck as he searched for God. The hands that had hesitantly touched the sensitive place between his shoulder blades when he wished to speak with him. The hands that had pushed the demon into the ring of fire that had trapped him when he'd heard that hellhounds had been brought merely for the purpose of messing with Dean's head. The hands that had skimmed across Dean's forehead to transport him away when Lucifer had been baring down on them. The hands that had wrapped tight around Dean's waist as he was carried out of the town where the Whore of Babylon had been hiding, he himself for once too weak to stand on his own.
And now they were the hands that still throbbed with pain from where he had punched Dean so hard that there were still green and blue bruises on his knuckles. He'd slammed him into the wall, gotten nose to nose with him as he yelled his grief for the whole city to hear.
"I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?!"
They were the hands that had carried Dean back to Bobby's house, broken and bleeding, the work of those same hands.
They were the hands that had pulled the box-knife from his trench coat and pressed it into Dean's palm with the words, "Carve the sigil into my body," because with the addition of pain to his senses, he could no longer do it himself.
He could still see the horrified look on Dean's face at the words, the slow, refusing shake of his head that had been stalled as Castiel had once again pressed the knife insistently into his hand. Dean had pressed him up against the wall, undoing the buttons on his shirt and loosening his tie as he pushed the knob on the knife up until the blade showed, gleaming in the California twilight. And slowly so as not to mess up the intricate symbols, Dean had done as he'd asked, marking out the Enochian banishing sigils into his chest. Castiel had gripped the hunter's upper arms as if his life depended on it, their foreheads pressed together as the angel fought down the human urges to vocally express his pain , and Dean used the connection as a focal point to keep his mind on the task. He'd placed a hand against the place he knew his singed handprint had already left a scar, a last, silent plea that Dean would remember that before he gave himself over to the angels.
And these were the hands that had taken just a few moments to long to break their death-grip on Dean's arms as the sigil was completed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the blood trickled down it from the fresh wounds. Their foreheads had remained pressed together for the same amount of time, a silent apology in Dean's viridian eyes before he stepped back without a word. And those same hands had almost, just almost, reached out to pull him back. To pull him close and hold him tight and beg him not to do what Castiel had started to think was inevitable.
He knew the name for many human feelings after the time he'd spent on earth, but the one that had nearly overwhelmed him at that moment in time was one he had no name to describe. It had been the anguish of betrayal, like when his Father had turned his back to them, but he knew that was not quite it. It was the feeling of protectiveness for the man he'd raised from perdition, but that was not it either. But he knew that it was the feeling that was the reason for his slow and painful fall from heaven.
It was the feeling he'd had when he and Dean had gotten drunk in the back of Dean's Impala the night they waited for Raphael to fall into their trap. He'd never been drunk before, though he'd had to occasion to drink alcohol a few times, and the tingly floating feeling had been quite unexpected. And if this was what he felt after two whole six packs, then Dean was absolutely wasted.
He'd been gesturing out the window huffing about Sam's foolishness and demon blood when he turned bleary eyes to Castiel and stared intently at him. "You're pretty cool, Cass," the nickname was tedious on anyone else's tongue, "And I guess I did make you a promise, huh."
"What promise?"
Dean had only smiled as though it was obvious, "I told you that I wouldn't let you die a virgin, 'member?" He moved over across the Impala's leather seats to sit a little closer, "Just swear that we won't discuss it after words, it'd be awkward." Castiel, being the naïve angel he was, merely nodded, not quite getting where Dean was going with this. And then Dean had leaned forward and kissed him, hard.
Whatever Castiel had been expecting, it had not been that, and he gripped Dean's shoulders in confusion, remaining absolutely still as the hunter slid his tongue into his already half open mouth. "Dean, what are you-"
"Talking during is also not allowed," Dean muttered, drawing back a bit to begin popping open the buttons on Castiel's shirt, pulling his trench coat down to his shoulders. "Unless the question pertains to sex, don't ask. It's too chick-flicky."
So they hadn't spoken aside from Dean's murmured instructions to the inexperienced angel. There had been blood, it was unavoidable with their hurried and desperate movements. And it was no wonder his future self had been so enamored with sex, as Dean had had to cover the angel's mouth to keep anyone outside the car from hearing him cry out as he came hard between them.
They made love so many times that night that he could no longer remember the exact number. Dean inside of him, and him inside of Dean, it had all jumbled together into one blurry mess of a memory. And if that was how his own memory of the night had turned out, Dean had either forgotten the incident or passed it off as a dream. But one thing that Castiel remembered with perfect clarity was that Dean had two sensitive places besides what was obvious. The space between his shoulder blades and the scar Castiel had made on his left shoulder. He'd touched that place behind the warehouse in California with the faint hope it would spark some remembrance of that night and change Dean's mind about agreeing to let Michael into his body. He didn't think it had done any good.
So he lay on the cold hard ground, staring up at the darkening sky. How long would it take for death to take him if he just lay here forever? He had no where else to go after all. For a moment he touched the cell phone Dean had given him that was buried in one of the pockets on his trench coat, contemplating calling him just to check, but pushing the thought aside. Dean had chosen, and that was that. There was nothing more he could do.
"We'll find Cass . . . Adam too."
The angel jolted as the words rang in his head, words that were not from any memory he could recall. He pushed himself into a sitting position again, gazing around at the empty field he was in for Dean, to no avail. But that had certainly been the hunter's voice, he didn't doubt it. And if he was still speaking his name as Cass instead of Castiel, then he had remained Dean, and had not given his body to the archangel.
Castiel sighed, letting his body slump back down onto the grass. He'd wait, and he'd heal. And then, he'd go find Dean and his brother and do whatever he could to have them remain as they were. That was all he could do until he either died, or fell too far.
A small smirk crossed his usually stoic features at the thought. While he'd seen very little of human television, his bout with Gabriel had sent him through quite an ordeal of movies and TV shows. Falling, it was one of those English phrases that was put before the words in love. Maybe that was what the unnamable feeling was.
Well, Dean needn't know that, it was far better that he didn't. But even if it was faint, it gave the angel something else to hold onto and have faith in, if only for a little while longer.
RANDOM AUTHOR RAMBLE
So, the big question is whether or not Misha has been grabbed for season 6. And since we have no news even now, it's either because Cass's gonna die, or he's gonna be back for 6 and it's all just hush hush so we don't flip out. Calm down, Misha's minions. We will have our answer in two weeks. *hyperventilates*
Anywho, these are basically Castiel's thoughts during 5x19. Tah-dah. Nothing else much to say to that. *waves off* except that I freaking HATE the ep for killing Gabriel. ;_; but since he is the most amazing trickster, I don't really think he's dead. = 3= so whatever.
CASS! U BETTER LIVE FOR SEASON 6 OR AT THE VERY LEAST KISS DEAN GOODBYE AS YOU DIE!